


Head Above Water

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Blood, Canon - Book and TV Combination, Canon - TV, Childhood, Emotional, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lyra Knows Lord Asriel Is Lyra's Father, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Major Character Injury, Secrets, Snow and Ice, Whump, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Winter comes to Jordan College, and so does Lord Asriel. Lyra enjoys playing with the other children and waging war with snowballs, but her heart aches. Sometimes it’s a father she needs most.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel & Stelmaria, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon, Lyra Belacqua & Roger Parslow
Comments: 24
Kudos: 140





	Head Above Water

**Author's Note:**

> It's another Saturday and I'm posting more Dadriel. 🥰🥰🥰 I love him and Lyra so much. Ideas just keep coming. This one Hit me hard and fast recently and I loved this particular idea (especially since it's winter here I am). I really hope my fellow Dadriel fans get a kick out of this. Any comments/thoughts are totally encouraged! ❤️

*

A tempest of winter creeps into Oxford, entrenching the roads and bridges and marketplaces.

And so begins a new war.

Lyra builds snow forts with Roger and other servant children from Jordan College, gathering their wits and weapons of frozen crabapples from the branches of dying, cragged trees outside of Palmer's Tower. She's eager to face against the children of Hertford College. Normally they were allies, but after Hertford's children aligned themselves with Foxe's children against the town's children, which caused an ambush done by the gyptian children capturing Lyra — she's been out for blood since.

(Not _real_ blood.)

(Well, once — Roger was shoved by an enemy-child on New Inn Street, smacking his face to the cobblestones, nearly biting his tongue through.)

In the distance, the toiling of chapel bells. Lyra can hear sleighs rigged and driven by horses clomping about Beaumont Street where Ashmolean Museum sits proudly among the ruined, unwashed marble. Stonework glitters with hardened ice.

The local town's children living within the area of Broadgates Hall pelt Lyra and the others with a flurry of snowballs, but are no match for the crabapples. They begrudgingly surrender. Waging war becomes exhausting for all — so instead of building new forts for their prisoners, as Lyra and the servant children of Jordan originally saw to in practising on their own grounds, they bully the town's children into the emptied, frigid archways, holding their enemies captive until someone yawns loudly out of boredom.

Lyra has never played as a guard. She appoints the guards and they listen to her without question, picking their noses, bowing their heads in exaggeration. That makes her a war-commander, Lyra supposes. A pluck of smugness and delight echoes inside her. Lord Asriel commanded men, deep in the Northern wilds and back in Oxford, using his own wits and influence.

He knew how to manipulate others into doing as he pleases, and as Lord Asriel's young daughter — she done it _without_ knowing.

(She has bragged of being related to the powerful, feared Lord Asriel, as his niece, but refuses to speak truth of what she now knows. Lyra doesn't think she was supposed to know it _at all_. During the last spring, when the brightly painted narrowboats were easy to spot on the canals, Lyra overheard two gyptians refer to her as Lord Asriel's child, ducking down as they turned. At first, she assumed they were lying. But lying to each other… that hardly makes _sense_. And neither of the men knew she was there.)

Pantalaimon, as a white-faced horn owl, lands atop her shoulder. "Do you heard that?" he murmurs, flapping and arranging his wings. Lyra gazes up, brows furrowed. Until she recognises the mechanical, deafening noise of an oncoming zeppelin.

The other children take notice, fascinated, and then of Lyra's dark eyes widening. She runs out of battle, vanishing over the hill.

*

Zeppelins have strict flight and landing coordinates according to the Magisterium. True to his character and disdain of their ilk, Lord Asriel comes — and goes — as he pleases. When visiting, Lyra can usually guess where his expedition airship descends.

This time, she darts towards the open grassy field serving as a border between Durham College and Jordan College.

Lyra halts, squinting her eyes and cupping thick, wool mittens above her forehead. It's difficult to see through white, powdery snow and ice crystals whipping up, and the mid-morning sun reflecting off the zepplin's very spindle. She blinks, and then inhales tightly as Lord Asriel swings himself from the cabin-door, one of his hands brace to the railing high, high up.

It feels like a pure form of magnetism thundering her breast, as Lord Asriel's blue eyes stare into hers. They're too similar. They're too far apart. She cannot read his expression — but then again, he has not been an easy man to decipher.

Stelmaria leaps down, roaring in irritation and longing to be free of the enclosed space. He follows her, appearing stern.

"Go back inside! Now!" Lord Asriel yells over the blare of the rudders shutting down, letting go. He glares in the direction of a pink-cheeked, determined Lyra stumbling towards him. "You'll catch your death out here!"

_"Why are you here!?"_

She doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but the stirrings of despair and a justified, childish rage fill her so quickly. He's neglected Lyra for so long, breaking his promises, ignoring her letters and attention when it suits him — how dare he —

Lord Asriel frowns, regarding her with a hard look. "Don't be insolent, child," he says.

"I dunno _WHAT_ that is—" Lyra seethes at his low, reprimanding tone, as Pantalaimon hisses through his beak and puffes up his speckled-white feathers until he's nearly twice his own size. "—but I _KNOW_ that's what _YOU_ are! _YOU'RE_ insolent!"

A growling laugh escapes Stelmaria, her tawny, pretty eyes unblinking. Lyra's cheeks heat up, the pink darkening.

The engines settle, reverberating a boom against the bitter-cold air. Lord Asriel glances to his men unloading, and then to a half-scowling, half-pouting Lyra, his features seeming to relax. He musses Lyra's dark brown hair from her face, using his fingertips, and she can feel every little bit of warmth from him. Carefully picking out the ice and snow. She can only stand there, Lyra's heart aching in the quiescence between them.

Sometimes… sometimes, he acts like a father should. Lyra wishes he could tell her she's his. Maybe then everything would _change_ … maybe then they could travel in North together and be a _real_ family…

"Haven't changed much, have you," Asriel whispers, removing his wolverine fur-lined cap and securing it over the top of Lyra's head, pulling it down over her reddened, numbed ears. He pulls it a little more after the briefest of moments, covering her eyes, and huffs in amusement as Lyra complains. His smirk faint. "Stand aside. There's equipment to be brought in."

More men trample through the snow, carrying huge, metal boxes and devices that Lyra doesn't recognise. Asriel stands away, shouting to Thorold, clapping the other man's shoulder in a friendly gesture — and it's like she has already been _forgotten_. Again.

Lyra fumes, running off to the main gate.

*

It's back to war.

They've ferreted out where the brickburners' children were hiding, screaming obscenities, flinging snow-crusted mud and sludge. Lyra wrestled down a boy around her height, knocking him in the gut with her elbow when he smacked her face. _Lackwit_.

Pantalaimon, as a polecat, and the boy's daemon, as a coyote, bristle up and snap their jaws to each other.

Some of the canals are deep and wide enough for five of the largest gyptian boats at once. But everything's been frozen over. Lyra hasn't seen any gyptians since the last bit of the reaping season's light disappeared on the horizon.

Hugh Lovat and one of the orphans from the narrow lanes of Jericho — they have a spat, punching ferociously and getting yanked apart by the kitchen boys from Wykeham College. The orphan throws what appears to be several gold coins stolen from Hugh Lovat. Coins from his older brother dying of bloody flux. They glimmer in the air, dropping onto the canal's icy surface. None of the children, or Hugh Lovat, venture forward. They've been staying off the ice deliberately since engaging in their wars.

"Whats the matter with you?" Lyra declares, scoffing. Her friends and allies bite their lips or avoid eye-contact. As the war-commander, Lyra must be the bravest of them, she supposes. Raising her chin high, Lyra goes onto the ice, picking up coins.

"Dont be _stupid_ —"

"You shut your mouth, Simon Polstead!" Lyra barks, watching the little boy deflate in humiliation. She's _not_ afraid.

Four gold coins, and the fifth one left in the centre of slickened ground. She retrieves it, grinning victoriously, and then whirls around. That's when the Lyra's entire right foot shoots down through crackling and melting ice. A frightened, high-pitched scream flies out of her mouth. The other children scream as well, horrified by what they're seeing. Most of them run and holler.

Lyra quickly heaves her foot out, feeling the sharp, stinging cold of the running water below. She whimpers and doesn't move an inch, hearing the ice groaning around her loudly. So loudly. As if it all could collapse at any moment.

"Oh, Lyra," Pantalaimon whines.

"Stay there, Lyra! Stay there!" Roger yells, giving away his panic and terror. Salcilia turns herself into a gigantic peregrine falcon, already high up in flight. She screeches something at Roger, immediately knowing where to go. "I'll get help!"

When he's gone, Lyra feels her hopes sink a little. She can't stay out here forever. The ice will keep melting.

Pantalaimon whines again, burrowing himself as a pearly-white ermine round her neck. Whenever they got into a spot of trouble, he would tell her how foolish she was. How they could be doing anything else. Pantalaimon can't. Not this time. His fear courses through her, deeper and deeper within the marrow of Lyra's bones. And she knows Pantalaimon feels hers, suffocatingly real and connecting them whole.

"It's okay…" she breathes, shaking so fiercely. Lyra's hand reaches for his pearly-white fur, to comfort, to grasp him.

Bright red blood leaks out onto the ice. She's never seen a colour so vivid… _glowing_ … Lyra moans, rapidly blinking out the woozy spell. Her ankle, torn open by split shards of ice, feels moist and burning-hot and cold all at the same time.

"We're okay…"

Convincing herself, and Pantalaimon, seems less likely as the ice under her shudders. Lyra gulps down a scream, tensing up.

Voices approach.

_"DAMN YOU—HOW DID SHE GET OUT THERE—"_

Relief floods through her. A tear rolls on Lyra's jaw, cooling.

Lord Asriel emerges into view, climbing up and over the bank, lugging gear. Two or three more men behind him, including Roger. He's more infuriated than Lyra has ever seen him before. Stelmaria bounds for the canal's icy exterior, stopping short. Lord Asriel's daemon stares down at her paws, and then at Lyra. Trapped. On her own. Stelmaria gives out a long, forlorn yowl.

It resonates through Lord Asriel as well, piercing every vein, filling his heart with _anguish_ , but Lyra would not know this.

Lyra would not know that her father held her for dear life. He fought to keep Lyra's head above water as a baby, never relenting, never concerning himself with failure, and now Lord Asriel is staring at the undeniable possibility of losing this fight. Losing her.

He orders the men back, scoping where Lyra is and the ice's condition around her, prowling along the canal's edge.

"We can't get to you like this—!" Lord Asriel finally says, loudly enough for her, his teeth gritting and baring. She wonders if he notices the blood. "You're too far—and the rest of the ice won't hold under the weight! You both need to come to where we are!"

"No! We'll fall through!" Lyra hollers.

"You won't—!" She shakes her head wildly, clamping her mittens tightly over her dry, chapped lips, hiccuping down a sob. "See those patches—like the one you're standing on—!" Lyra focuses on his deep, rumbling voice, forcing herself, those dark eyes studying the ice. She's on a patch of white, almost milky surface. "—they're the weaker spots! Avoid them! Tread lightly and evenly distribute your weight! Go down on your stomach and crawl until you've both reached here! Be quick about it!"

Her heart pounds so fast that she's certain it could break everything around her.

"But _can't_ you—?!"

"Lyra," her father interrupts, calmer and encouraging. Wearing a thin smile. "I will not let anything happen to you. On my life."

It feels like the truth. She composes herself, scrubbing her eyes and nose. Be like Lord Asriel. A war-commander. Strong. Brave. He wouldn't allow himself to fall in, and she won't either. Lyra slowly maneuvers off the patch, lowering herself. It's clear, bluish tint ice for most of the return. Her belly flattens to the ice, as she scoots herself, listening for any creaks or groans.

The more she moves, the more Lord Asriel gets impatient. His brow drips with perspiration. He crouches, and then straightens up his legs.

"Quickly," Lord Asriel mutters, crouching again and sticking out his hand eagerly. Stelmaria prowls as he had done before, chuffing in anticipation. Her silvery-and-black coat flecks with new clumps of snowfall. Lyra can feel Pantalaimon's ermine-claws digging like needles into the back of her neck. "That's a good girl… that's it…"

His fingers brush to Lyra's knuckles. Whispers, promises of heat and refuge. Lord Asriel grunts, inching in further, seizing onto her wrist. He's off the grass. As soon as they're both standing, Lyra gawks in amazement. She clutches Pantalaimon to herself.

The ice right off the canal's bank, layered by the heavy snow, fractures under their boots.

_Seconds._

It doesn't feel like _seconds_ , but it is.

Lyra chokes, wide-eyed, her head jerking backwards and painfully hard. She's helpless to the force of Lord Asriel roaring and thrusting his hand into her coat's front, unraveling one or two buttons. He hauls Lyra off her feet, tossing her onto the bank where she yelps and lands awkwardly onto her side. Pantalaimon scurries to her, groaning out Lyra's name.

The last thing she sees of Lord Asriel is his bluish-tint eyes, softening in reassurance, before he falls. Swallowed whole by the ice.

" _NO_!" Lyra screeches at the top of her lungs, clawing her way to the water-churning, icy hole left behind, tremouring with the effort to reach him somehow. " _NO_ , _NO_! _NO_!" She recklessly plunges one of her arms in, sensing nothing but the horrendous, spine-numbing cold.

One of Lord Asriel's men snatches onto her waist, dragging her back. Lyra can hardly tell which way is up in her grief, bawling in heart-wrenching gasps for air, screeching out expletives and for Lord Asriel, — " _FATHER! FATHER!_ " — as Stelmaria bellows out Asriel's name, diving in after her human. Lyra would for Pantalaimon, as Pantalaimon would for her.

(They would go together or not at all.)

Hundreds of thoughts, disorientated and screaming, race through Lyra's mind.

The top of canal's ice shatters apart. From within.

Lord Asriel, drenched and wheezing, heaves himself out with the aid of Stelmaria's powerful jaws digging in his clothes. He rolls onto the snow-hardened grass, forcing himself up on his knees. Roger cheers in the background. The men sigh out, no longer needing to help. Lyra sobs out " _FATHER_!" and wretches herself free, latching onto Asriel's neck in a clumsy, desperate hug.

He's not warm, but solid. Real.

*

Four gold coins, and one that sunk forgotten to the bottom of the canal.

Lyra rolls them around secretly in her dress-pocket, having been washed and dried off by Mrs. Lonsdale who fussed endlessly over her wounds and the stitches needed. She itches the massive bandage to her ankle.

The Master gave her a quiet, harsh lecture, once they've separated her and Lord Asriel. Lyra did her best to appear remorseful, hanging her head and scuffing her black, leather-patent shoes — but she couldn't truly listen. Lyra worried about her father. _Mild hypothermia_ , they tell her. _Lord Asriel needs rest, but you may dine in his chambers._

She bursts through the oak double doors, limping, gazing at Lord Asriel hunched near the fire. He's under a collection of grey, woolen blankets, rubbing over his chest and torso to warm up. "Over there," Lord Asriel grumbles, nodding to a table.

Lyra glances to Stelmaria flexing and unsheathing her big, curved claws, lounging out by his thigh. Her fur still damp.

"Eat," Stelmaria mumbles.

Lyra's face brightens into a pink, surprised flush. She rushes over the hot plate, seating herself. Dinner appears to be cooked, salted fish and greens. Radishes. Cranberry sauce. Lyra's enthusiasm immediately fades. The kitchens and everyone in the kitchens were perfectly aware of the food Lyra despised. This is a _punishment_.

"You're confined to your studies and your dormitory until The Master says otherwise," Lord Asriel tells her, his voice raspy but strengthening. "There will be no playing with the other children. No playing on the rooftops. Have I made myself clear?"

Lyra broods, stabbing the fish with her little, decorative fork.

_"Yes…"_

"I heard you."

She pauses, genuinely confused, before Lyra's mouth sours with the realisation.

"I heard what you said, and you're mistaken. I'm not your fath—"

"You're lying," Lyra blurts out, turning her head in defiance. Something resembling a more complex and vulnerable emotion bolts in Lord Asriel's expression, before vanishing. His daemon only swishes and curls her tail, observing Lord Asriel with the utmost patience.

"There was no use hiding it from her, Asriel," she says, rumbling a gentle, vibrating purr. "You know this."

Lord Asriel narrows his eyes at Stelmaria, frowning, halfhearted in his outrage at best.

Pantalaimon, having turned into a reddish and smaller bobcat, leaps from the coziness of Lyra's lap, padding towards the snow leopard daemon welcoming him.

Lyra feels herself getting up, on instinct, as the blankets shift open. Lord Asriel says nothing, but his lips tilt into an unfamiliar smile and his arm beckons her. She drops down beside him, embracing both of her arms to her father's middle, loathing the obvious, uncontrollable shivers. Her forehead nudges to Lord Asriel's ribs through his jumper.

Maybe — everything would _change_.

Maybe.

*


End file.
